


Sometimes I Still Dance In The Snow

by thorinawesomeshield (veganerwurst)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bilbo doesn't have any weird utensils as his hands, But I don't really think that the ending is going to be any more happy than the one of Edwards, Edward Sissorhands AU, I'm making things up as I go here, I'm messing with timelines and ages and just about everything, M/M, No one ring, Orphan Bilbo, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Smaug never happened, This is probably going to get sad, When I say "Edward Scissorhands AU" I mean more of a "this story is very heavily inspired by...", he is just a Hobbit in Erebor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 00:16:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4856003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veganerwurst/pseuds/thorinawesomeshield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"He didn't have a name?"</em>
  <br/>
  <em>"Of course he had a name. His name was Bilbo."</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was the first snow of the winter. It had been cold for weeks now and all day long you could smell the snow in the air and now finally the snowflakes had begun to fall down, silent and peaceful. Soon they would cover all of the mountain, the earth, and the lake. They would bring the harsh breath of winter with them, but for now they weren't anything but a beautiful novelty for the young dwarfling who hid on his balcony from his udâd. He didn't want to go to bed yet. He wasn't tired at all and the snowflakes were so beautiful and so much more exiting than sleeping anyway! So instead of washing himself and putting on his nightshirt, like it was expected of him until his father would come to his rooms to bid him a good night, he decided to run across the balcony, around the oak tree growing there (it was almost without any leaves now, that the winter was coming) and tried to catch as many snowflakes with his tongue as possible. The little dwarfling was so drawn into this little game of his that he didn't notice the old dwarrow watching him silently from the doorway until he spoke up, his voice not much louder than a rustling of leaves in the wind would have been.

"Aren't you supposed to be in bed by now akhûnith?"

The little dwarfling instantly stopped and turned but just seconds after the first scare of having been found out he relaxed again.

"Ugmil’adad!"

Grandfather may looked always gruff and grumpy but the little one knew that the old dwarf was actually a lot gentler than the first impression would let anyone believe. He knew how to look for the love hidden in the bright blue eyes and for the fond smile tugging at the wrinkled corners of his mouth. He also knew that Grandfather had a really soft spot for big puppy eyes and he'd let him get away with much more than his udâd so he wouldn't have to fear a lecture about not being in bed already.

"Look ugmil’adad! Snowflakes! Aren't they pretty?"

This time the old dwarrow did actually smile at the dwarfling.

"Indeed little one. They are very beautiful. But still, it's time for you to go to bed now ghivashâlh. You can play in the snow tomorrow again."

After pouting for a bit and going to the bathroom, washing, pouting, getting ready for bed and pouting again the little dwarfling was finally in bed and stared up at his grandfather.

"Snuggle in, little one. It's cold out there."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course ghivashâlh. Always."

"Why is there a tree on the balcony? No one else in the mountain's got any trees."

The old dwarrows eyes drifted to the stone wall which, now that the door was closed, blocked the view to the outside completely. His head was turned so perfectly in the direction of the oak, as if it's position was engraved into his very soul. As if the plant was north to an invisible compass inside of him.

"Oh, that's a long story, akhûnith."

"I want to hear."

He looked back at the little dwarfling, and there was an old sadness clouding his old eyes.

"Oh, not tonight. Go to sleep."

"But I'm not sleepy at all yet. Tell me please."

 _'Please'_ was a word the little dwarfling used very very sparingly and so, combined with his biggest puppy eyes, the old dwarf really never stood a chance against the little one's pleading.

Thorin took a deep sigh. If he had learned anything in that long life of his it was acknowledging when he was defeated.

"Very well then. Let's see. I guess it would have to start with Hobbits."

"Hobbits?"

"You see, Hobbits are strange creatures. They are smaller than dwarrows and they live in holes in the ground. But not like we do in halls of stone. Also not a nasty, dirty, wet holes, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell. No Hobbits love comfort and their homes have many round windows on their panelled walls to let the sunlight in, many polished chairs in front of cozy fireplaces and lots and lots of pegs for hats and coats because they are a sociable lot and very fond of visitors. Also often they have a lot of really big pantries in their tunnels, filled with more food than you could ever want, because Hobbits love to eat and have seven meals a day, where we eat only three."

"Seven?"

Thorin actually chuckled at the incredulous tone of his grandsons voice.

"Yes seven. They tend to be a bit round in the stomach. Hobbits also don't grow beards. Not even the males."

"No beard at all?"

"No beard at all."

"Why have I never seen a Hobbit or even heard of them?"

The old dwarrow stared again over to the wall, as if he could see the lone tree through it before he continued to speak.

"Hobbits live far from here, in the west. They seldom leave their lands and never go on any adventures, because that would mean nothing but trouble and being late to dinner to them. They mostly keep to themselves, content in being unnoticed by the Big people and shy of the other races.  
But once there was a Hobbit who lived far away from any of his relatives and the green hills they inhabited. Do you know the old cabin at the foot of the mountain?"

"With the flowers on the roof?"

"Well a long time ago a wizard lived in that cabin. Well he did not really _live_ in there because this wizard never settled down.  
Still, it was known that this house was his and he would turn up from time to time, sometimes every other month, sometimes decades would pass without any sign of him, but nevertheless the house would never wither away because of his magic.  
Never though he stayed for longer than a few months. I think he never stayed anywhere _at all_ for long. But one day, the wizard came to this cabin, a carrying a sleeping boy in his arms. The boy was a little Hobbit. He had lost both of his parents just weeks before and none of his relatives would take him in and, because the Hobbitlings mother had been a very good friend of the wizard, he decided to care for the boy.  
And he did. He teached the Hobbit everything he could and soon the Hobbit could not only read and write, cook and clean, sing and dance and all the other things a Hobbit does, but also speak langues other from his own, he could speak to the earth and the plants, was friends with the strangest of people and learnt a many other things the wizard had teached him.  
For ten years he stayed, but being the wizard that he was he couldn't dwell forever on one place and so one day he began wandering again. Only short trips at first, but soon he was gone longer periods of time and when the Hobbit had grown up he wouldn't see the wizard more than once a year, on his birthday. So he was living all on his own in the cabin, without anyone he knew and who took care of him. And what was even worse for him - being the Hobit that he was - without anyone _he_ cold take care of."

"He didn't have a name?"

"Of course he had a name. His name was Bilbo."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I have really literally no idea how this happened because the one second I was writing on my actual project rn and on the next its 6 am and I apparently spend the last 3 hours writing an Edward Scissorhands AU. I have no idea where this came from and no idea where this will take me because it really came out of fucking nowhere but I kinda hope that I'll finish this one because now I'm kinda curious myself...  
> Anyway. I don't own anything and this is not beta'd so if you see any mistakes please tell me :)
> 
> Almost forgot to add the khuzdul translations:  
> udâd - father  
> akhûnith - little one  
> ugmil’adad - grandfather  
> ghivashâlh - treasured one  
> Also, the kid is actually Fili's son, and therefore not technically Thorin's grandson but I always gathered that if Kili or Fili would have any children, they would refer to Thorin as their grandfather (and Thorin would be absolutely helpless against them because cute _tiny dwarflings!_ ). This is of no importance at all for the story, I just thought I'd add it here. (So you know that there won't be any mpreg, not will Thorin have a wife or anything like that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you read, please note: I'm messing with timelines, ages and just about everything here for the sake of the story.
> 
> So for everyone who's interested: this story takes place in 2923, eleven years after the fell winter. Bilbo would canonically be 33 years old (which would be equivalent to a twenty-something human). _However_ I just moved the day of his birth seven years later, so he is 26 (~17 by human standarts) years old by now and was only 15 (~9) when the fell winter happened. 
> 
> About the place of the cabin and the whole surroundings of the mountain, [_here_](http://thorinawesomeshield.tumblr.com/post/130099971436/sometimes-i-still-dance-in-the-snow-absolutely) is a sketch how I picture the place (behold of my unbelievable MSPaint skills!) (I pretty much made things up here but, to be fair, I hadn't much to go on, as there's close to none information to be found about how the desolation of Smaug looked before it was... well desolated.)
> 
> Also, yes I know that the dwarves call Gandalf Tharkûn but for the sake of simplicity, I just stayed with the one name. After all Gimli as well as Thorin and his dwarrows never call him anything else either so 'Gandalf' it is.

Thráin son of Thrór had what you would call a bad day.  
He had just passed the lake and thankfully found a pony waiting for him at the shore. Boats always left him feeling a bit queasy and he was glad he wouldn't have to walk the way back to the mountain. He was exhausted. The entire last week he had spend within the woodland realm trying to negotiate with Thranduil. The "little" spider problem in Greenwood was getting out of hand quickly and already affected more than just the lands of the elves. Trespassers and traders had been attacked and, just ten days ago one of these foul creatures was sighted dangerously close to the mountain. Seen by a mere child. It was very fortunate that it could hide until a dwarven patrol came and drove the monster away. Thráin shivered just at the thought what could have happened. Unfortunately none of this did seem to bother the elvenking in the slightest. He didn't care for anything but his own welfare and had made it very clear in the last few days that the only thing that would let him even consider in helping any dwarrows was laying in a chest deep in the treasure hall of Erebor.

Thráin knew the chances of getting King Thrór to give anything at all to that damned elf, let alone something as beautiful and precious as the gems Thranduil desired. They were non existent.  
Riding on his pony north the dwarven prince pinched the bridge of his nose. He was getting a headache.

There were families living in the hill. Little dwarflings playing outside of it! The spiders were dangerous and this was not the time for petty power plays! So, no Thráin wasn't any fond of that treeshagger at all. But he also knew (even if he would never voice that thought out loud) that it also wasn't the time for his fathers needless greed. The mountain flourished. Never had they lived in such wealth. What was one chest of a few gems to them when it could buy the safety of their people? And what would happen if traders would cease traveling to the Mountain because it was too dangerous? What if the spiders were just the beginning of even worse things to come?

Thráin was so lost in his thoughts, he hadn't even noticed that he'd already reached the overlook in front of Dale. Sighing, the dwarrow stopped his pony and let his eyes wander, taking in the unmistakable beauty of his home. The sun had already begun to set behind the woods, bathing the land in red light. He could hear the humming of life from the city and watched men and dwarves returning to their homes. There was a peacefulness in this moment and Thráin just stood there, taking it all in.  
If he was quite honest to himself he knew that he didn't want to return to the mountain just yet. He didn't want to be the bearer of bad (although not unexpected) news and even less the one who told the king about Thranduil's conditions for help. So he just stood there, silently watching and letting himself enjoy the quietness of being alone for once.  
With the light of the sun slowly vanishing from the sky the city and the mountain became more and more illuminated by torches, candles and fireplaces.  
It was beautiful. It felt like _home_.

He jumped off his pony and sat down at the edge of the outlook and ate the rest of the salted meat that he had with him for his short journey. But with the sun gone, the temperatures dropped rapidly and Thráin frowned at the unexpected coldness of the evening. Winters in Erebor were always harsh and the prince would rather not be reminded by every breath that turned into a cloud that the summer was about to die soon. Least of all now with the apparent thread of gigantic spiders crawling over the lands.

It was of no use to stay there, trying to delay the inevitable return to the mountain any further and so Thráin finally stood and turned towards the road, when he suddenly saw something in the corner of his eyes. Smoke. It was smoke, coming from the small forest that lay just in front of the western side of the mountain.  
Which was exactly where Gandalf's little cabin was. The smoke was clearly coming from a chimney, neither strong nor dark enough to be mistaken for a forest fire.  
Which meant that the wizard was visiting Erebor and currently in the house. And if that wasn't the first good news of the last couple of days! Gandalf would not only be a welcome reason not to face the other dwarrows yet, but also would his old friend surely have advise for him (and if he was quite honest with himself, a bit of the pipe weed from the west that Gandalf was so fond of wouldn't go amiss either).

Smiling Thráin turned his Pony westwards and rode.

 

The prince had been here before, many years ago, but when he reached the entrance to the property he was stuck speechless.  
Even without the light of the day it was noticeable how completely altered the place was. The garden was exceptionally well looked after, even in the darkness Thráin could see beds of flowers, herbs and... where those tomatoes? He would never have taken the wizard for a gardener.

But that wasn't everything. It was the house itself. It was difficult to explain, more a feeling than an actual viewable trait. Just like a house just currently empty because the family living in it was out as opposed to one truly empts, it looked... well, _inhabited_. It had never looked that way before, even when Gandalf stayed for longer than a week at once.  
Oh, sure, the house would always be in a flawless condition, untouched by time or weather, most likely through the wizards magic. But it never had the feeling of a 'home'.

There was no light seeking through the windows, but the smell of fire was still filling the air, much too present to be coming from anywhere but the house. Someone was inside of the cabin, Thráin was sure of it. Someone who either went to bed within the last ten minutes or didn't want to be seen by any visitors (him).

He crossed the garden, only hesitating when he reached the door.

"Gandalf?"

When no answer came, Thráin slowly opened the door and entered. It was dark inside, but warm. The fireplace was still smoking a bit as if someone tried to smother the fire in great hurry.

"Hello?"

The sound of creaking wood came from the next room, and Thráin was certain now that the source of it wasn't the wizard. He drew his axe and entered the chamber with a confident stride.  
There was only one single window in here, and the trees in front of it blocked almost every bit of the last rays of light from the sky outside and so the room was even darker than the other one. Thráin just stood in the doorway for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the lack of light. It was a bedroom. The dwarf had known this, he had seen it before, though then there had been only one bed standing in here. Now, curiously enough there where two, a second child- (or _dwarrow-_ his mind supplied) sized one accompanying the one the wizard used.

There was a rustling in the corner of the room. He squinted his eyes and saw a figure huddling in the long shadows.

"Show yourself!"

The shadow made a distressed noise and tried to hide any further, pressing against the walls behind it.  
It was only then that the prince realized just how small the figure was. It couldn't be bigger than a dwarfling or a human child. A very small one if that. None of which would actually pose a thread to him. He lowered his axe.

"Mahal. Hello there, little one. I apologize. I - I didn't want to startle you."

Even though he couldn't see the face of the child(?) in the shadows he still felt the fearful gaze weighing on him and so he slowly cowered and laid the weapon down, holding his other hand up like in surrender.

"See? I'm not- I won't hurt you. My name is Thráin. I'm a friend of Gandalf. It's his house, you know that don't you? I just saw smoke and thought he was at home and I wanted to visit him. He's not here is he?"

No answer came from the shadow in the corner.

"Don't you want to come out? I swear I won't hurt you."

The shadow did something akin to a head shake, so small that Thráin thought he could've just imagined it. But as there was no other reaction forthcoming, the dwarf paused, honestly not knowing how to proceed. He felt like the little one would be startled with every prompt movement he did, just like a wild animal (and Mahal knew Thráin never got the knack out of handling animals of any sort. In fact he was glad he found _one_ pony in whole Erebor willing enough to listen to him). Unsure of what to do he looked around. The place was well kept. Lived in. Was that child living here? The second bed would certainly suggest so. But where was Gandalf? Why would he bring a child to this house just to leave it behind then? And, the most important question: what was Thráin supposed to do now?

He couldn't force the little one to show themselves. Couldn't force them to answer him or maybe even to come with him, but just leaving something so small alone out here, completely unprotected didn't sat right with him either. The tiny thing just radiated fear, obviously completely unable to defend itself against any thread. Just to think about what could happen if anyone or anything with darker intentions than he came here, like - _Mahal, the spiders_.  
No, it was completely out of the question that he would just leave. The other races may believe that dwarves cared for little beside cold stone and metal, but that was far from the truth. What dwarves treasured more than anything else was loyalty, kin, friendship, love, and, above everything else, children. Children were sacred. Even if the bundle in the shadows turned out to be an elven lad Thráin wouldn't ever even think about harming it in any way.

Nevertheless, just sitting here and staring at the shadows wouldn't do him much good. Maybe he should retreat in the other room and wait for the little one to follow him? He could light a fire there, too. But when he slowly stood, the figure suddenly reached towards him and a little voice called out, almost panicked.

"Don't go."

The dwarrow blinked startled and sat down again.

"I won't."

The movement had brought the little one out of the deepest shadows and Thráin could finally see them.

It was a... boy, or at least he thought so. He was too small for a human or an elven child, or to be precise, his face was the face of someone older than the infants of the two former races would be at this size. Were he a dwarf, Thráin would have estimated his age about 30 years. But there was no beard on his face and his features were small and delicate compared to a dwarf and his hair was short and curled.

The prince had never seen anyone even remotely like this creature.

"I won't go anywhere." He repeated. "But would you talk to me?"

The kid nodded shyly.

"What are you doing here?"

"I- I live here. Gandalf brought me here."

Gandalf. So he did know.

"And where are your parents?"

"They... They didn't wake up. It was a- a very cold winter and they were sick and they..."

The little ones voice broke along with Thráins heart. He remembered the fell winter well. The low rations of food, the bitter cold... But at least the dwarrows of Erebor were resistant against illness and not as affected by the temperatures. The men of Dale and Esgaroth though lost many that year. He could only imagine the damage this kind of weather could do on a folk so small and fragile. But this winter had been ten - no eleven years ago! Surely the little things couldn’t have been here all this time.

"And can you tell me where is Gandalf is?"

The little one shrugged, not meeting his eyes.

"He will be here on my birthday. I think."

 _Oh_ , and when Gandalf got back, they would have _so many words_. The dwarf didn't speak up his righteous anger with his old friend though, unwilling to scare the little one any further. Instead he just settled for smiling and nodding encouragingly.

"If you don't mind me asking... What exactly are you? I have never seen anyone like you."

"I'm a Hobbit. From the Shire." The little one lifted his chin up as if to challenge him to say anything about it.

Thráin laughed softly while he stored that knowledge in his head with the intention of looking up both, _Hobbits_ and _the Shire_ in the great library later.

"Alright, little Hobbit of the shire. It is an honour to meet you. I'm a dwarrow of Erebor."

He bowed as good as it was possible in his current position.

"Will you tell me your name?"

There was a short silence.

"Bilbo."

"Well then Bilbo." Thráin nodded to himself. "I think you should come with me to Erebor."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own anything. (And isn't that true haha *sobs*)  
> Not beta'd (and I really should stop writing after 3 am), so if you see any mistakes please point them out to me.
> 
> Thank you for reading. :)


End file.
